


Alice Underground

by PhannVan



Series: Feed Your Head [1]
Category: American McGee's Alice, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Lust, alice gets off on violence a wee bit, alice has a dark streak and murdery tendencies, alice is unstable, alice's feelings are an emotional rollarcoaster, brief mention of flowey, brief mention of toriel, but i'm still working that out, chara, dead bodies, doorknobs are alice's worst enemy tbh, emotional tension, i'll update tags as i add on, mentions of bumby, mentions of date rape, mentions of past rape, modern alice, possibly more horrortale than undertale?, sans is so done with alice's shit, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-19 17:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 19,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15514836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhannVan/pseuds/PhannVan
Summary: Alice fell again, and maybe it's because of the drugs(or maybe it's because of her mind, her mind, she finally lost her mind)but the only thing she really knows is that this rabbit hole didn't take her to any Wonderland she recognizes.***A modern AliceXUndertale crossover fic





	1. Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, and welcome to chaos! :)
> 
> I'm not 100% sure where this is going to lead, but I will update tags and warnings and whatnot as it goes. This is a little side project when I don't feel up to working on other projects, so new sections will probably happen sporadically.
> 
> I do know that this one will be a darker fic, honestly moreso leaning into horrortale, but we'll cross that bridge when we reach it ;3
> 
> Also, the entirety of the work will have weird spacing and run-on sentences. It's intended to be written the way Alice thinks (and to be honest I think it's fun). So there's that. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! I mean, Alice probably won't. Neither will Sans or anyone else. But eh, what can you do? ;)

You can’t imagine

            what it’s like falling

                        forever like we tend to do

                                    and by “we” I of course mean

                                                me, but these voices sometimes

                                                            get in the way of what I’m really thinking

            and what they want me to think.

 

Of course, I’m assuming again, but you

already live underground and I don’t imagine

that you can get much lower than this.  I fell

on a bed of flowers and their silence unnerves  
me.  This is no Wonderland or Underland but

it is definitely under.

 

Am I losing my mind again?

 

Nothing here is alive, at least not in this area

of Hell.  There’s a chill in the emptiness and   
what I wouldn’t give for a match or a lighter  
or a couple pills (but don’t tell Hatter) to see  
the things I’m not meant to see.  This place  
is dead.  
Silent.

Nothing flows through the air and I have the  
most curious feeling that someone has been here

before and done away with the pesky living  
things before I ever even had a chance at it.

 

There’s a heaviness in my chest and above ground we call this heaviness dread.

But I get up anyway because even though the feeling is heavy it’s not immovable.

It’s like my sister said.  When you hit rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up.

 

My eyes won’t adjust to the inky black surrounding me and

I fantasize about being blind while wandering blindly through  
the suffocating muck.

 

I’m probably walking straight but I could be going in circles I suppose. 

But up ahead is the smallest glimmer of light that could be a lightning bug  
but it probably isn’t.  Instead, a flower, illuminated by itself I assume because  
in this darkness I can see no other source of light.  It’s crumbled and broken  
and a part of me wants to break it more by twisting its petals off.  I never  
much did care for flowers.  Too loud.  But this one is pathetic enough.  
Killing it would be a mercy.

But I’m not feeling very merciful today, thank you.

I could crush it while walking by with the heel of my boot and   
squish it into the compacted dirt until it grinds into dust, but I  
can hear it cry for help.  It knows I can hear it.  That’s why I  
just keep walking.

 

I once had a shrink tell me that no one is born evil.  It’s something we learn as we grow.  
I wonder if he was told the same thing when he was my age? 

But never mind that.  No ill should be spoken of the dead, even when the dead are the  
cause of all your ills.  
Why are the dead free from judgment?  
Never mind.

 

My fingers itch to be holding something  
so I try to conjure up a vorpal blade  
more for the comfort of the weight in my hand  
than for any unseen danger.  
            But nothing happens.  
Be careful, Alice.  You have no power here.


	2. Real

Bits  
            and  
pieces  
            start  
to  
            fall  
together  
            on  
my  
            way  
through  
            the  
tunnel.

Like how I didn’t just fall,  
            I crashed.  
I can still hear my mother’s voice  
            telling me that party drugs were worse than the norm  
because your dealer wasn’t as apt  
            to lace it with something stronger that you didn’t want.  
She’s full of shit, though, because  
            my last dealer was the one who roofied me for a piece  
of ass.  Anyone can screw you over  
            and they don’t need a concrete reason to do it.  
Reasons  
            don’t  
                        matter.

So there’s the possibility that none of this hall is real  
and I’m holed up in the bathroom on the floor having  
a bad acid trip that I didn’t ask for.

But I doubt it.

Dreams don’t hurt.  Nightmares don’t bring back wounds upon waking.

Never mind.  Irrelevant.

I walk further up the path through mazes of puzzles already solved by one before me.  
It’s quiet.  The heel-toe heel-toe echoes from the concrete walls.  Focusing  
on that is easier than listening to my own breath.  I don’t like the sound  
of myself breathing.  It unnerves me more than it probably should.

Ahead is a house that would probably be well-kept  
if it were well-kept.  That is to say, it was at one  
time, but now the dust and dirt from the mess  
around us has settled in every nook and   
cranny around the outside.  And by us  
I mean myself and my thoughts.  No   
cobwebs, though.  Not on the house  
or my thoughts.  Or myself.  
Never mind.

I would knock if it didn’t look abandoned and if  
the door wasn’t cracked open already.  It moved  
on its hinges, forward and back, as if the wind  
was catching it.  But we are underground.  And  
there is no wind.  I would consider haunted, but  
it doesn’t feel ghostly.  That, and I don’t think I  
would be able to feel a ghost.  Does that make  
sense or am I being hypocritical?  I don’t know  
anymore.  What I mean is that it can’t be haunted  
because I can feel someone inside there in the dark  
waiting for me to walk though the threshold.

If this is an acid trip and I’m really safe on the  
bathroom floor of a house party of people I don’t  
know, then I have nothing to worry about because  
this isn’t real.  
Unless I fell and hit my head.  
Unless I’m bleeding out.  
Unless I won’t wake up.

If this is real, then there’s nothing left to do  
but push forward and just  
open  
the  
damn  
door  
but I can hear myself breathing and it makes  
me nervous because if I can hear me then  
who else in Hell can hear me?  
Can the something inside hear me?  
Can they pick up on the subtle fear oozing from  
my mouth and skin?

Alice, does waiting for death to walk up to the door make it easier to die?

No.  I suppose not.

I take a breath (a final breath?) and push  
the door open.  It creaks.  
If anyone’s home, I’m coming in.


	3. House

It’s dark.  
            It’s dark  
It’s dark  
            itsdarkitsdarkitsdarkitsdark  
                        and I wasn’t afraid of the dark before  
                                    but I might be now.

Something’s in here.  I know it is.  
I can hear it breathing.  
            Can it hear me?

Step by step by step I walk  
blindly feeling around with my feet.  
            The floor is covered in glass.  
I wait for the inevitable stray shard to ram itself through the sole of my boot to find home in my foot  
but my foot remains a stranger to the outside chaos.  
For that I am grateful.

I cannot see the thing in the corner  
but I know it is there all the same.  From the hitch  
in its breath I know it knows that I am  
here, too.  
Somewhere.  
In the dark.

Is it afraid?

I hope so.

Whatever it is, it seems to be in as much pain as the flower.  
Whoever came through before me did a number on the beasts.  
I say “beasts” not because I think it’s a beast, but rather because  
I know that whatever it is, it is not human.  It is not flower.  
It is simply “beast” until I decide otherwise.  Make sense?

Never mind.

My foot catches and I almost fall but my arm catches the wall instead.  
Apparently I was closer to the beast than I originally thought.  It’s a   
relief, really, that it lays there without putting up a fight.  It’s not dead,  
but it is almost.  And now that I know, I’m curious.  My hand moves  
on its own.  I surely would not do what it is doing.  Not if I were in my  
right mind.  But there it goes, reaching down, down, until it comes in  
contact with fur and cloth and wet and sludge.  Perhaps I wasn’t too   
far off when I called it a beast.  Not that it matters.  The thing’s been  
gutted so far as I can tell.  Disemboweled.  What I assume is its blood  
is cool to the touch, and I assume that means whoever did my job for  
me has been gone for a little while.  
            But, alas, I am no expert on guts and blood temperature.  
            I only know what it feels like to drive a knife though something  
                        over  
                                    and  
                                                over.

The dying thing is drowning in its own blood by the sounds of it.  
The gurgling is overdramatic and unnecessary.    
Just die already.  
Please.  
But in that garbled gasping nonsense is a name.

                                                                                    Chara.

The name means nothing to me now, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t later.  
I commit it to memory.

I have to move on.  I want to end this thing’s life for the help it gave me,  
            an odd sort of mercy kill that I’m not entirely used to,  
but I don’t have a knife.  
I have to move on.

I reach forward and find a handle.  It’s a door.  I know it’s a door, and I know  
how doors work, I’m not an idiot, even if the other people would want you to  
believe that about me.  I am capable.  But I don’t know if I’m ready yet.  
Because I’m used to death, but only when I’m the one causing it.  I’m used  
to other worlds with other rules, but only when I’m the one in control.

But how else am I to get home?

Alice.  You have a choice.

You can stay here with the dying beast thing forever until your eyes rot from your skull.

Or.

You can turn the damn handle.

I breathe in the death around me, and turn turn turn away.


	4. Snow

The light.

I know that if I turn around to look into the room   
I come from,  
I will be able to see the damage that was done before  
I even arrived, but  
I don’t turn around.  
I don’t want the image burned into my memory, because  
I remember enough of death from my own reality, thank you very much.

The light.

Like a moth drawn to a bug zapper, I step into it, fully immersed in something  
bright like the sun but with no warmth, because there is no sun, there are no rays.  
So I open my eyes wider and look, really look, at my surroundings, my hand still on the knob  
of the door, not ready to let go because somehow I know that if that door closes I won’t  
be able to go back.  
Not that there is much to go back to.  
Never mind.

I look and really look and it’s not as bright as it was before, not really.  Snow always seems  
bright, even in the darkness.  It reflects the light, doesn’t it?  Maybe?  I don’t know.  
But I do know that it gives me enough reflection to see the shadows of the trees on either  
side of me.  There’s lots of trees, more than I can count, and I think that makes this a forest.  
Or is it woods?  What’s the difference?  Does it matter?

I have to take another step, but to do that I have to let go of the door.

And it’s not as if I am scared of where I came from,   
but I can feel something moving in the darkness behind  
me.  I can feel a hand stretching toward me, ghosting   
my outline as if they mean me no harm or as if they mean  
me all harm, but I don’t want them to touch me with their  
dying palm and fingers and nails.  It makes my flesh crawl.

It’s not as if I’m scared, but I take another step.

The door slams behind me.

I don’t try the handle again.  I don’t want to go back into the dark.

Alright, Alice.  Forward march.

Hup-two I go through the snow.  It crunches under my feet  
and reminds me of Styrofoam pebbles.  Same consistency.  
It’s not particularly wonderful, but it’s a distraction.  A  
welcome distraction.

            Everything else is silent.  
            Not a breath of life for miles, or so it would seem.

But I can feel something.  
Here and there.  
Inconsistency.

                        W h e r e  a r e  y o u ?


	5. Death

I know this isn’t a dream because in dreams you can’t feel,  
and I can feel the cold air on my skin.  It feels like a kiss from  
Death, though I can’t say I’ve ever felt the feeling of lips myself.  
All I know I know from whatever television channels that were  
locked on in the psych ward common room.  They weren’t supposed  
to let us watch shows like that, but some of them did.  Some of them  
didn’t care about the impressionable.

Never mind.

Something is here with me and I can feel it flicker in and out of  
existence and I don’t know if it’s dying or if it’s toying with me  
but either way I wish it would make up its mind and stop.  Every  
time it pops up I can feel my heart jump into my chest.  I won’t  
say that I’m scared, though.  Jump scares aren’t real scares.  But  
all the same, I’m waiting for it to touch me when I have my back  
turned and I don’t want to be touched.

We walk like that   
for some time in  
the dark and the  
cold and we don’t  
stop until we reach  
the bridge.  I don’t  
want to turn around  
but I know that it’s  
there, it’s done  
flickering, and I   
don’t have a knife.

All I can do is hold my head up  
and hope that if they wanted  
to kill me they would have done  
so already.

                                    Can I die here?

Turning is easier with my eyes closed.  
I know that whatever is there will be  
monstrous, because that’s the kind of place  
this is.  Been there.  Done that.  When I  
open up, I see my old friend, Death, staring  
me in the face.

            I’ve never felt Death’s kiss,  
                        but I have seen it.  
                                    I’ve delivered it.

Its skull is hollow but for a single blue light  
                                                       blue ember  
                                                       blue eye  
and I know that I should run  
                                                but I’m rooted to the spot  
                                    like a god damn flower.  
Its mouth doesn’t move but I can hear it all the same,  
but I don’t know if it speaks through its teeth or if it just speaks in my head  
            (because there’s a difference between the two in case you didn’t know)  
but maybe it doesn’t matter so long as I can hear it.

It says strange things,  
                                    “went and fell down the rabbit hole again”  
                        “always thought you’d be more of a smile-er”  
                                    “or was that just your cat”  
                        “no room in wonderland”  
                                    “but plenty of room here”  
                        “even if you grow”  
                                    “but especially if you shrink”  
and I only know a little of what it’s talking about  
but I don’t know how it knows me.  Either way,  
I don’t want to hear riddles at the moment.

                                                                        That’s Hatter’s bit, anyway.


	6. Touch

          “don’t you know how to greet a new friend?”

I don’t answer because who is he to demand  
answers from me when I don’t even know who  
he is.  And I realize I’m assuming him to be a he,  
but I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman so cold,   
even as a monster.  There’s something in his smile  
that I can’t quite bring myself to trust, and that’s a  
first for me.  Times change, and I guess people  
change, too.  Even if the people is me.  But I don’t   
answer.  Not at first.  But he won’t stop staring at me  
and I think if he stares much longer a hole will burn  
through my skull and I can think of more useful things  
to do with my time that doesn’t involve self-harm.

            “You’re no friend of mine, friend.”

And I know that isn’t one of my proudest lines  
or proudest moments in my life but it isn’t  
one of the worst, either, and I feel like  
that should count for something,  
don’t you?  If nothing else?  
Or maybe that’s just  
me.

All I know is I don’t like his eye.  
                      nothing will change that.

He reaches out his arm, his gloved hand, and I think if I were to touch it  
I would   
die  
on  
the  
spot,  
because touching death does that to you, doesn’t it?  I know without seeing  
that there is no flesh hidden inside.  There’s only bone held together by  
something I can never hope to understand.  It’s okay.  I don’t want to   
understand anyway.

But he keeps standing there with his hand extended toward me and I’m   
afraid to touch it but I’m afraid that I will never move from this spot   
until I take it in my own.  I don’t hope for wisdom often from unwarranted  
sources, but I step outside my comfort zone and wish for the cat to speak  
some nonsense in my ear, even if it is frustratingly unhelpful.

But no one came.

            “come on kid, don’t leave me hanging.”

And what else is there to do?

I offer my hand in return and he takes it in his  
and I ready myself for a strong grip and a knife  
in my wrist, through my wrist, cutting from one  
side to the other in time to a song that only he  
can hear.

But nothing happened.

Just a smile and a   
smooth up and   
down, and   
then, release.

“You know of me.”

I can’t say that he knows me because I don’t know him,  
and to truly know someone the other someone definitely  
needs to be in the loop of the knowing.

Never mind.

            “i guess i’ve heard a thing or two in passing.”

“And you’ve just been standing here waiting?”

            “nah.  i know where you’re going with this, and truth is, i ain’t that way, kid.”

And I’m glad that he knew where  
I was going with this, because I  
certainly didn’t know where it   
was heading.  Not yet.  But   
never mind all that.  He’s looking  
at me still and I’m ready to push  
my head into the beaten path  
below us again and again until  
my brain jostles itself upright again.

                        The truth is, I’m nervous.  
                        The truth is, I’m unarmed.  
                        The truth is, Alice, we’re not in Wonderland anymore,  
                                    and Death is here to greet us at the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is all I have so far typed out. Expect things to go a little slower from here on out. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading xoxoxo


	7. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of past rape here, but nothing too graphic.

We’ve been  
            walking for  
some time  
            now, and   
we’ve talked  
            very little,  
and I  
            still don’t  
know how  
            Death knows  
me, but  
            I like  
the silence  
            anyway.

The remnants of a town pass by with gore scattered here and there  
like lawn ornaments  
and I don’t want to say anything about Death’s decorating skills  
or question why  
            no one has come to bury the dead  
or at least do away with the evidence  
                        because maybe there’s no one left.

                                    Wonderland at least had the sense to do away with the dead.  
                                    Even when things were violent.  
                                                Especially when things were violent.

And I know Death can feel my eyes on the remains  
because every time I stop for a closer look at something   
that might have been a child, he stops, too, waiting silent  
for me to move along.  Death offers no explanations.

            “yeah.  usually not this messy.”

Until now. 

            “it’s usually less bloody and more dusty.”

And I don’t know what that means but I nod anyway.

            “come on, kid.  not much further.”

And there’s a house up ahead with smoke coming from the chimney  
and I didn’t realize how cold I was until just now at this particular  
moment.  Just like I didn’t realize that Death was wearing basketball  
shorts until just now at this particular moment.  It seems stupid in its  
own way, but again, I don’t say anything.  I rather like our conversations  
one-sided, thank you very much.

There’s another doorknob, and again,  
I know how they work, but this time  
I don’t have to make the decision to  
turn it, which is comforting in a way.  
            To an extent, at least.  
Because I know from experience that  
letting others make your choices for  
you rarely turns out for the better.  One  
turned doorknob or offered seat can   
quickly become one hard club to the  
back of the head and waking up   
with your clothes torn away and the  
moment you make the decision to   
scream a hand clamps down on your  
throat until you can feel your heartbeat  
in your eyes by someone who was   
supposed to be your friend or someone  
who was supposed to help you get your  
head situated and he keeps going at it  
and won’t let you have air until he’s  
d o n e .

And maybe I let my thoughts run away with me again  
because now I’m on the floor in the house I saw before  
and there’s something soft under my head and Death  
is a few feet away with a scratch on his skull that I don’t  
remember being there before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, Alice. Poor Sans always gets the brunt of things. :(


	8. Tea

            “Ah, I’m sorry…?”

Because I don’t know what I did  
because I never know what I do  
                                                when I forget how I get there.  
And I don’t know if that makes sense  
but never you mind anyway.

                        But Death doesn’t say anything.

He offers a gloved hand and it could be to kill me for good this time  
but death from Death seems attractive at this point   
since my head is still hazy from memories that I don’t like to revisit,  
but when I take it, there is no final hurrah, just a boost  
upright and nothing more. 

He does not direct me to the couch,  
            and maybe that’s where he went wrong the first time.  
I don’t know.  
            I don’t remember.

He instead leaves me to myself  
while he messes around in what I assume is the kitchen  
but I’m not bold enough to follow  
him.  Or maybe I’m too independent to follow.  I don’t  
know, but I do know that the fire  
is warm, and for the time being, that warmth is more  
attractive than the icy cold grip  
of  
Death.

T i m e  
 p a s s e s  
and I can hear clinks and clanks  
in the other room, and I don’t have to  
wonder what he’s doing in there because  
I’ve heard those same noises while staying  
a spell with Hatter.  I know tea brewing when  
I hear it, and when I smell it, and I swear to you   
now that there is nothing that brings me home more.

T i m e  
 p a s s e s  
and this house has a staircase  
and two closed doors up top, and  
curiosity is a bitch, but I fight it back,  
not because of some misplaced respect  
or fear, but because of something as arbitrary  
as not wanting to stray too far from the hearth.  
It’s comfortable and it makes the   
            pulsingpulsingpulsing  
in my chest slow, and even if it’s temporary, if Wonderland  
taught me anything, it’s that you need to take advantage of  
the things that calm you, because there is so little to go around.

T i m e  
 p a s s e s   
and he returns with a cup of tea  
so sickeningly sweet it makes my eyes water  
but I do not complain, even though I feel it is an insult  
somehow, but I just can’t put my finger on it.

He sits on the couch.

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                I sit on the floor by fire.


	9. Nah

I remember when I was comfortable  
with the silence between us—uncomfortably  
so even.  But now his jaw has been working  
tenfold telling me stories of what used to be  
and what is.  And maybe it’s not so bad, and  
maybe I’m relieved just a little, and that worries  
me a little bit because I didn’t watch him make  
my tea, but I think if he put something in it I  
would be out by now, and really, what’s the  
worst that Death can do?

            I say his jaw is working but  
            really it is at a standstill,  
            because he can’t open up but  
            he can change the shape when  
            he wants.  For a skull, for a  
            skeleton, for Death, he’s  
            expressive, and I don’t question  
            how he works because he  
            doesn’t question why I attacked  
            him.

He tells me about resets  
                        and anomalies  
and asks if I’ve heard of Chara,  
                                                            but I just shrug  
because a dying beast’s plea hardly counts as information.  
His left eye flashes blue for a split second, and I forgot it  
wasn’t glowing before, but I blink and it’s back to darkness,  
save for a small white light in each socket.   
It reminds me of Christmas lights.

He smiles and it’s easier to let my guard down  
            for just a little while,  
and it’s nice.  
Even when he explains how monsters turn to dust  
            when they die.  
Even when he laments  
            about his brother.  
                                                I never knew Death had a brother.  
                        Just like I never knew,  
            never noticed,  
                                    that I moved closer to him while he’s been telling stories.

I was close enough to the fire to touch it,  
and now I’m close enough to his knee to do the same.

            “i’m sans, by the way.  sans the skeleton.”

And Death has a name, and I’m tempted  
to taste how it feels on my tongue, but instead

                                                                        “I’m Alice.  But I guess you already knew that.”

And he looks away.

            “yeah…yeah…”

                                    And then silence.

What I really want to know is what  
any of this has to do with me.  That,  
and what my body is doing in the  
bathroom of some house party  
while my mind is out on holiday.

But he’s looking at me again,  
and again, I’m close enough  
to touch him, and it might be  
a little uncomfortable, but I  
think it could be worse.  He  
reminds me of someone I know  
                        someone I like  
and I think it might be more  
than that skeletal smile that  
never really goes away.

                                                But ultimately:  
                                    This game has gone on for several hours  
                                    and I’m ready to go home now, and staying  
                                    in this house drinking tea isn’t going to get  
                                    me home any sooner, so I have no qualms  
                                    in saying so, even to Death, even to sans.

            “Sorry, sans, but bodies and Chara are your problem.”

And maybe I am a little sorry.

In another life,  
another time,  
another universe,  
I would be more than happy to help those in need.  
            Believe it or not,  
            hero play was how I used  
            to get my kicks.  
But I’ve played this game too many times  
in Wonderland to give their woes more than  
            a passing glance.

I won’t say I don’t respect Death’s wishes,  
but I can’t deny that anyone who serves me  
tea so sweet it rots my teeth is hardly someone  
to worry about offending.

                                    So imagine my surprise,  
                                    if you will,  
                                    when the cup of tea is  
                                    slapped from my hand  
                                    and my body rises from  
                                    my spot on the floor  
                                    without my help at all.

My insides feel heavy  
and my head feels dizzy  
and it takes a second to  
put together that sans  
isn’t standing on the  
ceiling, but instead I  
am suspended in air  
up  
    side  
           down  
with his skull inches  
from my own sorry  
mug.  One eye is dead  
and the other is blue  
and he’s still smiling  
but I don’t think he’s  
very happy right now.

            “nah.”

And I don’t know if  
my blood is boiling or  
if it’s just rushing to  
my head but I do know  
that if he doesn’t  
put  
     me  
          down  
I will go into hysterics  
and I doubt when I wake  
that there will be much  
of Death left to worry  
about the sad fate of his  
little world.

            “that’s not the answer i was looking for, kid.”

Can  
you pass  
out from being  
upside down for too  
long?  Because my head  
feels fuzzy and my vision  
is starting to black  
out on the  
sides.

            “thing is, you’re my last option.”

And  
it’s  
getting  
hard  
to  
hear  
him  
and  
it’s  
getting  
hard  
to  
breathe.

            “so let’s skip the debate and get straight to the point.”

But the dark threatening to take me  
doesn’t seem so scary anymore,  
and maybe if I sleep a little here I  
can wake up in the bathroom of some  
house party later and be rid of  
imaginary worlds for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhh Alice...about that... ;)


	10. Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice remembers a little bit more about past abuse in this one. Still not graphic or anything, but just as a forewarning. :)

Consciousness   
fades in and out  
but still I will not  
open my eyes.  
I keep them shut tight under lock and key.  
If I open them to a bathroom floor, I really have lost my mind and need to lay off drugs for a while.  
If I open them to a strange house in a strange world with a strange reaper, then everything is real and just as bad.

            So instead I listen for what is real and what is not.

Sometimes when I wake  
I think I hear music or voices  
or deep sounds, monstrous sounds,  
and when I wake,  
actually wake,  
the noises never were.  
You know the feeling?  
Never mind.

I think I hear the crackling of a blazing fire  
and fires don’t exist in bathrooms of shady  
house parties of people I don’t really know,  
and the sound makes me nervous,  
makes my bottom lip tremble,  
makes my throat close up in   
            panicpanicpanic  
because if this is my reality, I don’t want to go back.  
The truth is, the last thing I remember is that Death  
has a name and that he’s upset  
with  
me  
and I don’t want to wake up to a fight.

            I just want to go home.

            “ya know, i just so happen to be an expert at sleeping.”

And I hold my breath.  Maybe if he thinks  
I’m dead  
maybe he’ll leave me alone.

            “and i know when someone is faking it.  
            so how about you open up those baby blues  
            and we have a little chat, buddy.”

But I don’t want to have a little chat.  So  
I keep my eyes closed in defiance.  Who   
am I to care if he knows I’m feigning?  I  
don’t feel very cooperative at the moment  
and I refuse to wake up until he   
leaves  
me  
alone  
and lets me go on my way.

I just  
want  
to go  
home  
and mix up a brompton cocktail and maybe never wake up.

            And maybe that’s more depressing than just dealing  
            with this walking talking skeleton   
            but even after a forced sleep  
            (I remember I remember now)  
            I still feel heavy.

            And maybe I’m being nostalgic and missing  
            my own little world,  
            my own little Wonderland,  
            and friends there who would let me lay here  
            and sulk for a while  
            if I needed it.

            And maybe I’m not acting my age right now  
            and maybe I’m doing nothing more than pouting  
            and maybe none of that matters   
            because he’s the one making the demands  
            and I wouldn’t even let that damn cat  
            boss me.

            “come on, kid.  don’t be that way.”

And maybe…

            “you know, we could help each other out.  what are friends for?”

Maybe if I run fast enough, I can get away…

            “okay, now you’re just being rude.”

This isn’t Wonderland and I can’t conjure vorpals or fade to butterflies…

            “alright, fine.  you wanna act like a baby, be my guest.”

But if I could escape Bumby in the middle of a so-called session…

            “but you ain’t leaving until you hear me out.”

I think I can escape this situation, too.

I barely take a peek and this is what I know:  
I’m on my side.  I’m not bound.  Death is  
standing inches from my face.  I’m facing  
the couch, meaning I’m ten feet from the  
door to sweet, sweet freedom.   
I’m not much for planning.  
I have always done my dirty work on a whim.  
I feel like this would go smoother if I planned  
more than one step in advance.  
But I’m pressed for time.  
I’m anxious.  
I’m restless.  
Don’t you know the feeling?  
Never mind.

It’s been a while since I’ve fought for my life.

Using Death’s leg,  
sans’ leg,  
I pull myself,  
push myself,  
first with my arm,  
then kick out with my leg,  
and I’m a couple feet of the way there already,  
and by the sounds of it,  
he  
stumbled  
from the contact,  
but I can’t turn to look for confirmation,  
no time  
n o  t i m e  
because my feet are already under me  
pushing me along  
and this is going better than I thought it might,  
because I’m a couple steps from the door,  
from the doorknob,  
and I know for a fact how these things work,  
and my fingertips touch the cold brass,  
seeking purchase,  
and it’s odd,  
curious even,  
because the second I touch the doorknob  
the chill runs through my fingers,  
up my arm, through my chest, until my  
entire body feels cold and heavy again.

It takes a moment for my mind to catch up with me.  
Before things make sense I’m flying backward,  
spinning around to face where I’m going without  
trying to, without meaning to, and I already know  
that I’m not going to like this skeleton man very much.

We are face to face once again,  
and I’m almost certain that my face  
looks just as annoyed as his does right now.

            “we can do this all day.  or, you know, you could try listening for a change.”

“Fuck you.”

            “yeah…fuck you, too, kid.”

He puts his gloved hand on my shoulder.  He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t understand, and maybe if he did he would just stop just stop just let me go because I don’t like feeling restrained because it makes me go a little crazy, and if he would just let up, maybe I would listen maybe I would help but don’t make me do it don’t make me please oh god oh god please let me go please because I can’t move my arms and I can’t move my legs and I’ve been in enough situations of forced claustrophobia to know where this all leads and I don’t want it and I don’t want to beg but I’ll swallow my pride and beg please just don’t

“Don’t touch me.”

And he looks confused but doesn’t move his hand.  And I don’t recognize my own voice because it’s broken it’s cracked like ribs under the weight of another man or the same man again and again and I’m not an adult anymore and I’m not underground anymore and I’m actually in an orphanage somewhere better left forgotten where they don’t listen, they don’t get it, they don’t understand

“Don’t touch me!”

And then nothing.

The heaviness is gone,  
his hand is gone, and I could  
try running again but I find it more  
comfortable right back here on the  
floor, thank you very much.

            “just breathe.”

I didn’t realize I forgot how to breathe until he said something.  
Air flowed in and out of me too fast to do anything but make  
me dizzy.  
So I   
s l o w  
  d o w n  
until the oxygen doesn’t make me feel sick.

            “you good?”

Not really, but it’s not as if you’d listen,  
Mister Grim Reaper.  It’s my expert opinion,  
seeing as I’m an expert in time-wasting,  
that you are indeed wasting your time  
talking with me when you could be  
dealing with dead brothers and   
monsters and resets and Chara  
all on your own. 

When my head feels straight again,  
sans offers a gloved hand, then thinks  
better of it and puts it away in his coat   
pocket where it belongs.  And maybe I  
still don’t like him, but I’m glad we are   
establishing boundaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice: "Ahhhhhh!!!" *runs*
> 
> Sans: *gets out of the car* "Why are you running? Why are you running?"


	11. Know

This is what I know.  
My name is Alice.  I’m 26 years old.  
I like to drink and smoke and dabble in other party favors.  
I travel, even when I don’t like it, even when I don’t want to.  
And I’m open to the fact that there are other versions of everything out there,  
somewhere,  
because this universe is too big and too full of possibilities for   
this  
to be  
it.

This is what I know.  
His name is sans, and he isn’t Death.  
He likes jokes and ketchup and not doing much of anything.  
He can teleport, just like I can in Wonderland, but minus the butterflies.  
And he knows for a fact that there are an infinite number of timelines out there.  
Monsters are supposed to turn to dust instead of lay open on the pavement.  
Something is wrong with the reset.  
Something is wrong with Chara.

This is what I know.  
He wants me to travel the Undergound  
with him because we are going the same direction.  
He wants to fix Chara.  
I want to go home.

But there are a lot of details I don’t know,   
but maybe all that is for the better.

                        Teleporting would get us where we need to be faster,  
                        and he doesn’t say that was the plan originally, but I  
                        know it probably was.  He says he wants to walk, he  
                        says he wants to learn more about me and about where  
                        I came from, but I know he doesn’t care.  He’s just making  
                        polite conversation to pass the awkward silences by.

            I don’t know why he lies to me.  
            He used up his energy he might have used to teleport to wrangle me in.  
            I don’t know why he lies.

            “you know, i thought you’d be younger.  more around chara’s age.”

I wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

            “it’s okay, though.  you’ll get through to her, if you know what i mean.”

I don’t know what he means, but I don’t feel like talking anymore.  
My hand is on the doorknob, finally ready to conquer the damn thing,  
ready to move on and go home and get whatever happens next done  
and over with, and

            “hey just a second.  almost forgot something.”

And I will never be able to just open a fucking door without worrying or something incredibly stupid and unfair happening, will I?

Sans is already all done up  
in his odd choice of clothing  
            but maybe I’m not one to talk  
            since I’m traveling in a dirty tea  
            dress and I kept refusing a change  
            of clothes or at very least a coat  
            from the spooky skeleton who  
            insists he’s my friend  
but he goes back upstairs to a different  
room blocked off with the yellow caution  
tape that reminds me of a crime scene or  
two that I may or may not have been a part  
of, but never you mind all that nonsense.

                        He comes back with a red scarf.

He’s exhausted.  
            I can see it in the cavities of his skull where his Christmas light eyes peer through.  
Maybe if we were friends I would ask if he’s okay to do this right now.  
            But we’re not friends, not really, not yet,  
so even though my head is brimming with questions that he’d   
            most likely answer, given how our   
conversation a few minutes earlier went so smoothly,  
            but I don’t want him to get  
            the  
            wrong  
            idea.

                                    I keep my mouth silent and arch an eyebrow, hand on the knob.  
                                    He smirks and gives the slight inclination of what might be a nod.


	12. Detour

I miss Wonderland.

Sometimes, when I would travel alone,  
no cat to taunt me or tease me or just get under my skin in general,  
and the silence had settled over my shoulders  
and worked its way into my lungs,  
I could summon up music   
with only a thought,  
so that at least the calming sounds could keep me company  
in an otherwise desolate area.

            We’ve been walking together,  
            sans and I,  
            and I like the silence between us  
            but I also hate it.  
            He seems at a loss for words  
            and maybe I’m to blame for that  
            but I don’t apologize  
            because I don’t want to apologize,  
            because it’s not my fault  
            that he found  
            the wrong  
            Alice.

                                                I’ve been in a similar situation once or twice before.  
                                                Almost Alice but never quite the right.

There’s a cave up ahead off the beaten path of where we need to go  
and I don’t know why he’s straying that way when we have a long  
way yet to travel by the way he spoke when we were still in his  
house, warm and shielded from the elements.  
            Cozy, though I’d never admit it aloud.  
But he’s my guide and I’m his last hope (his words, not mine),  
so I guess I shouldn’t stray off too far.  
            Not to mention that I don’t want him to drag me along like a doll again,  
                        thank you very much.

Sans drags his heels on his way inside  
            and I stop  
because  
            it’s  
                        dark  
and, again, I’m not saying I’m afraid of it  
but again, I can feel something else in there  
and I don’t think it’s alive  
but I can be sure  
so I stay rooted to the spot.

            “hey, kiddo.  everything alright?”

He’s ahead of me but not much farther,  
            and with his hood up like it is  
            and his face shrouded in shadow  
            and his smile gleaming in the dim light  
I can almost pretend he’s someone else entirely,  
and I won’t deny the pang of longing deep inside me,  
striking my bones with an emotion I have trouble placing at first.

                        It’s  
            just  
                                    that  
smile  
                                                of his.  
                                                            And it’s not fair.

            “come out of the cold, kid.  we’ll wait out the storm and start back up again in the morning.”

But I’m not sure it’s safe in there yet  
so               I                         hesitate.  
A normal person would have said   
something, but I guess I’m not   
normal, I guess I’m not because  
I’m  
            not  
                        the  
            right  
Alice.  
And I’m still unarmed anyway,  
because sans never offered a  
weapon and I never asked.

            “hey, don’t be scared.  it’s okay.  nothing bad is gunna happen to you.”

And just like that, I’m offended.  I might not be the right Alice, but I’m not helpless.  
I’ve killed dozens, hundreds even, without batting an eye.  
But only on my own turf.  
Only Wonderland.  
Only reality.

            “i’ll protect you.”

And just like that, my cheeks are on fire and my hear sinks in my chest and I wonder  
if he’s using his weird magic on me again but his hands are in his pockets and I’m cold  
but it’s not the same as when he grabbed me before, and I don’t like the idea of my safety  
in anyone’s hands but my own, but I can feel the edges of my mouth turn up anyway.

                        Never mind.

I come out of the cold because he asked nicely  
and I don’t realize how cold I really was until  
I’m several steps, several feet, inside the cave.  
Sans is already busy making a fire from busted  
pieces of a cart long abandoned and forgotten.  
I sit on a boulder and stare at my hands for a little while.

                                                                                                And then the moans break  
                                                                                                the comfortable silence  
                                                                                                between us.

It’s from deeper in the cave  
and I’m not afraid, but I’m  
upset  
that I didn’t speak up earlier  
and tell him that I could   
feel something  
in here.

            “stay here.”

And he disappears,  
teleports,  
instead of walking into the other side of the darkness,  
and I hear another moan,  
a whimper,  
a cry,  
and a crunch  
that I recognize  
as bones breaking,  
and I wonder if it’s the mystery person or sans who’s broken.  
A squishing sound,  
again  
and  
again,  
as if someone is being stabbed repeatedly,  
and my fingers ache to hold something sharp  
just in case  
or even not just in case, if I’m being honest,  
because the thought of handling a weapon  
makes me feel a little funny  
in my head  
and in my heart  
and maybe, between you and me, maybe a little bit lower,  
            and maybe I can help the smiling skeleton  
            or maybe I can help myself  
                        and I’m aware that all these fantasies of violence  
                        are making my hands shaky and my breath rough  
                                    and maybe I need to take a step back and calm down and stop  
                                    before I take things too far again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowww Alice. o,O


	13. Fantasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice fantasizes about Sans, but not in the way you would think. Nothing too graphic, I don't think, so no real warnings ahead.

I can feel something spark in the air around me  
and I assume that he’s coming back or someone  
else is coming in his place, and I’ve never   
ripped someone apart  
with my bare hands  
consciously  
but  
I’m  
ready  
anyway  
and I’m not quite sitting but not quite standing   
so somewhere in between the two  
ready to pounce  
just in case.

                                                                                    But it’s only sans.

There’s blood on his hands and on his jacket  
and there’s a look on his face  
that I think might be  
something like  
regret  
            guilt  
                        remorse  
or something but  
all I know  
is that his smile looks fake  
and his face looks  
sad  
and I hate it.

Sans sighs and closes his eyes and for a few minutes he just stands there.

                                    And I feel like this should be private moment.

                                                                        So I just watch the fire instead.

At least until I see him moving  
out of the corner of my eye, and  
he’s shrugging out of his stained   
jacket and gloves, and I can’t help  
but stare at the outline of ribs  
showing through a white shirt  
and it’s sort of a sick fascination  
and for some reason my thoughts  
turn dark again  
and I wonder if I were to have a knife  
hypothetically of course  
where I would strike to make the  
squishing noises I heard at the other  
end of the cave.

            And he caught me staring  
            and I don’t think he can read minds  
            but I can see life flicker in his left eye socket for a second  
            so it makes me wonder.

He sets his bloodied clothing near the wall of the cave  
and then moves closer to me  
and for a second I’m afraid he’s going to sit next to me  
and it’s not that I’m nervous  
and it’s not that he’s a skeleton  
and it’s not that he might brush up against me  
but it’s something like I’m worried  
because my mood isn’t quite matching this situation  
and my mind is feeling a little darker than normal  
and I might be a little detached right now  
and I wonder again what’s happening to my body elsewhere  
and I don’t know why I want to find out if it’s possible to strangle a skeleton  
but the image won’t leave my mind  
and I don’t know why I chose him to fantasize over  
except for he’s the only living person I’ve seen so far  
that isn’t leaking their innards everywhere.

            I think I’m just bored  
            and a little  
            restless.

            “i can’t say i like the way you’re staring at me.”

I’m sorry, sans.  
            At least I think I am.  
I just need a minute to ground myself again.

            “are you a dog?”

What?

            “i don’t got meat, but if i throw you a bone, will you stop?”

And I think he’s being serious but trying to lighten the mood  
and I think I like him for that.  I smile and try to let my fantasies  
ease up a bit.  
He already dealt with whatever was back there.  
It’s over.  
Let up.

                        I’m quiet  
                        and he’s quiet  
                        and we watch the fire  
            together  
                        and we ignore our sins  
            apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like they're both gunna feel those sins crawling for a little while.


	14. Body

He says I was restless in my sleep  
                       mumbling  
                       screaming  
and that that’s why I opened my eyes to his skeletal form hunched over me  
with his cold, dead fingers on my shoulder and face.

He says he’s sorry for overstepping  
the  
boundaries  
we laid out the day before.

And I don’t think I’m as mad as what I could be  
            I asked for one thing just one thing one fucking thing sans  
but even though I’m not as mad as I probably should be  
            I think some payback is in order.

                        I wait until his breath is even and slow and his eye sockets are calm in slumber.  
                        I get up from my spot on the other side of the fire.  
            And     I do what I do best.

                                                            I wander.

The back of the cave is dark, though,  
            and again, I’m not afraid of the dark,  
            but I don’t want to step in whatever sans left behind,  
            and I don’t want to get lost,  
            and maybe I should just be upfront with you and say that   
            maybe I don’t like the dark all that much.  
I grab a stick of our kindle reserve and wait for it to catch  
and I glance over my shoulder to make sure my skeleton-not-friend hasn’t moved.

                                                            He’s still asleep.

I am willing to acknowledge or accept or assume  
that when he wakes and doesn’t find me nearby   
he’ll be upset or angry or even ever worse:  
                                                                        disappointed.  
But I’m wrestling my feelings at the moment  
and can’t find it in me to give much more thought that that.

And it’s dark it’s dark it’s dark dark dark  
but I have a makeshift torch burning slowly with meager light to lead me.  
My eyes play tricks on me and are in cahoots with the shadows   
bouncing and dancing and twirling and floating  
off the wall.  
            It’s easy to imagine that I’m back in Wonderland.

                                                                                                Home.

There’s only one way to go and that way is straight ahead.  
I suppose it’s good because I can’t get lost   
but I suppose it’s also not good because I can’t get lost.  
My feelings are complicated and finicky and maybe still a little dark on the subject  
but I don’t want to think about that right now  
because I have to concentrate on my steps and breath and hearbeat.

I can feel something here with me  
and I have to turn around  
to make sure it’s not  
sans sneaking up  
from behind  
but nothing  
is  
there.  
I can feel   
the presence  
bounce across  
the walls and floor  
and ceiling and I wonder  
how dead the thing is that   
sans had to take care of earlier.

            I can feel it in the air.  
            I can feel   
                        something  
            in the air.

I spun once or twice or a hundred times  
and forgot my sense of direction  
and I know this shouldn’t worry me  
because there is only two ways to go  
but I can’t see the light of the fire from here.  
It’s only dark and maybe I lost track of time  
but that doesn’t mean anything on my part.

                        My mind is rambling and circling and not helping my situation.

Nowhere to go but forward.

I took 526 breaths from that point until when I found something on the ground,  
its body in pieces and its head smashed in until the warm wet grey spilled  
out from the confides of its skull.  Stab wounds looked fresh enough, but   
I suppose that doesn’t mean much when things don’t decompose and   
sink into the ground to be born in life anew, but I think, and I could  
be wrong, I could be way off, but I think that the stabs might be  
a gift from sans.  And I can almost see it, I can almost see him  
stabbing the life from this thing that wouldn’t die, and when  
that didn’t work, he went to work on the head, crushing the  
nerve center itself until it was mashed into bits for the  
worms below to feed.  I can almost see it, as if it’s  
on the tip of my tongue, of course that being  
ridiculous, because eyes don’t have tongues,  
but here we are anyway, playing in a dark  
hallway with dead things with organs  
that still want to pulse and throb and  
live to satisfy the needs of a now  
broken body, and sick, morbid   
fascination runs through my  
mind, and I can’t help but  
wonder where sans  
found the knife to  
do the job and do  
the job right,   
because he  
doesn’t   
have a  
knife.

I know.  
I checked the pockets of his discarded jacket   
before I ventured out into the dark.

            Again, I feel something here,  
            something present and accounted for,  
            just out of reach,   
            out of sight,  
            but not out of mind.

And then,  
                        a flicker.

And then, for a second, I’m not wearing  
the dress I came in, but something a little thicker,  
something blue with something white,  
and my hair feels a little longer and straight  
against my skull and back,  
and there’s something in my hand that feels  
oddly familiar, like the hilt of something  
deadly, and there’s a current running through me,  
not an ocean or an air, but an electric,  
and the sparks run through my veins like a good  
drug, and I feel higher than I’ve felt in a long time,  
without the nasty side effects or fallouts.

            For a second, I can taste Wonderland.  
                        And then there’s a sound from behind me  
                                    and just like that, it’s gone.

            “what did i say about running off?”

“What did I say about touching me?”

            “you shouldn’t be back here.”

“I was curious.”

            “curiosity killed the cat, right?”

“Ah, and satisfaction brought it back, yeah?”

            “…”

My words feel dark and I think he can feel it in the air, too.

            “…get back to the fire.  now.”

I think he regrets bringing me along  
                        not the right Alice not the right one  
and I wonder if he’ll sleep anymore tonight  
knowing that a psychopath is next to him.


	15. Warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice is gross, dude. :(  
> ***In which Alice wasn't really done with that person they found.

Silence used to be comfortable between the two of us  
but now it just makes me feel anxious and annoyed  
and maybe a little hurt.

I go back through the events of the night before when  
we were in the cave and I won’t admit to feeling guilty  
but I will admit to feeling something.  If a little reluctantly.

The air bites at my face   
but at least the wind is gone.

We’ve been walking for a hour or more but it feels like a century.

I don’t know why the silence bothers me now,  
and I don’t know why I stopped walking  
just like I don’t know how there could possibly be so much snow  
stained with pink  
the further we go along.

So much blood for so few bodies.  
It’s like they keep bleeding even after they are long dead.  
Or at least half dead.  
Half alive  
Unable to commit.  
            It’s interesting, to say the least.

            “move it or i’ll carry you myself.”

I don’t think I like this skeleton very much,  
and I know this isn’t a new thought  
but I thought that maybe we were getting somewhere,  
somewhere in the right direction toward  
something more amiable than cold threats.  
                        We didn’t have it all, but we at least had boundaries.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

And I make my frozen feet move again.

            “care to run that by me again?”

“Not really, thank you very much.”

He sighs and rolls those things that are supposed to be his eyes.

            “you know what?  i think i liked you better when you didn’t open your mouth.”

“I’d say the same, but your mouth doesn’t open.”

            “…heh.  yeah.  i guess so.”

And there’s still the overwhelming feeling of tension weighing over my shoulders but  
at least there’s a little less than there was before.  He waves me on with his still stained  
gloves and I oblige while leaving enough room for at least three Jesuses between us.  
That’s a play on words my therapist used to say.  
Does it make sense?  
            Never mind.  
            It didn’t to me, either.

“I’m sorry about your friend.  What I did…it was nothing personal.”

I don’t have to explain what I did to him  
because he remembers it.  
He doesn’t even have to say anything.  
I can see it in his face.

            “…you just like to drag salt through the wound, don’t you?”

And he doesn’t have to explain what he did to me  
because I remember it.  
I think it’s better if I keep my face down.  
I never was good at admitting fault.

            “i think you shouldn’t bring it up anymore, kid.  unless you wanna have a bad time.”

How was I to know that going back to the body  
after he fell back asleep  
would upset him so much?  
            Or maybe it was something to do with  
            the way  
            I might have  
                        sort of  
                                    added to the mutilation  
                                    of sans’ blue furred friend.

I really am sorry.  I can understand how it looks bad on my part, but I truly meant no harm.  
Sometimes I just get a little anxious  
and sometimes a little heated  
and the blood and insides were still  
            pulsing pulsing pulsing  
so I just had to touch it, feel it, plunge right in to the elbow in hot gore  
because it felt familiar to me.  
I guess I thought I was still asleep.  
I guess I thought wrong.

                                                I can still see sans’ face when he found me.

So we used to talk a little every once in a while  
before we found the cave, and what I wouldn’t  
give to go back to the moment before we heard  
the guy in the back struggling between life and   
death and physically unable to commit to either.

            We walk in silence,  
            an arm’s length between,  
            and we’re both sporting  
            clothing that’s stained from  
            the thing in the cave.

                        We walk, and   
                        I know I fucked  
                        up, and the blood  
                        on my skin itches.


	16. Baptism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice has a lot of feelings she doesn't really know what to do with. Light suicidal thoughts here, but nothing heavy.

I’ve never believed in things like baptisms or  
born-again Christians, but I think this is the   
closest I’ve ever come to washing my sins away.

The water is cool against my skin and seems  
clean enough, clear enough, definitely good  
enough for my purposes.

Sans is close enough to touch and I don’t even  
mind it, not even when his magic sparks the air  
between us when I go under out of sight for   
almost a full minute.  That isn’t to say that I like  
it, but I don’t not like it.  
            Never mind.  
I think what I’m trying to say is that we haven’t  
talked in three days, haven’t communicated by  
more than different ways of taking air into our  
lungs, or my lungs, at very least, because while  
I haven’t seen what’s under his shirt I don’t think  
he has lungs, let alone any other internal organs.  
I think the reason is magic and honestly, things  
are easier when you don’t spend time analyzing  
what your skeleton-not-friend takes to make him  
tick.  We haven’t relayed anything but angry  
glares and worried glances.    
                        And maybe it’s better this way.

I come back up for air and the world feels different  
under my feet and around my arms and the space  
where nail meets finger for a second or minute or  
longer, and I think it might just be me, but when  
I look back at sans, I think he can feel it, too.  
            Whatever it is, he’s on guard, and when the feeling  
                        passes, he relaxes.

                                    And I don’t quite know why, because I’m not a mind  
                                    reader, and while I thought he talked too much when  
                                    he droned on and on about how things used to be, I think  
                                    I would rather that than him not speak to me at all.  
                        Especially when he looks at me like I did something wrong.  
                        Especially when he’s jumpy.  
                        Especially when I didn’t even do anything this time.

And maybe even though he said not to bring it up anymore  
I kind of want to, because I’m sorry, I am sorry, and I don’t  
know what I’m supposed to do or say to make things right,  
and I don’t know why I’m so bothered by this, because caring  
and friendships and people aren’t my style, they never have   
been my style, and I still don’t think I like him very much but  
I would rather have him like me than not like me right now.  
            Maybe I’m a little lonely.  
I wonder if I tried to drown if he would save me.  
            But I know that’s a stupid thing to do.  
Of course he would.  
            He would because he needs me.  
Not as a person, but as a tool to make things right for his world.  
            I don’t know how well that’s going to work.  
What good is a psycho against a murderer?  
            Vice versa?  
Never mind.

            “hey, kiddo.  don’t go too far out.”

Why?  It’s not like you care.

            “don’t want you to drown.”

It’s not like anyone cares.

            “i think we’re clean enough.  let’s get back where it’s dry.”

No one ever has.

I comply not because I want to and not because he’ll drag me  
where he wants me anyway, but because he’s finally opened  
up his mouth, so to speak.  I comply not because of his words,  
not because of his tone, but simply because he made words with  
a tone.  And I don’t know if that makes sense, I don’t think it does,  
but the only thing I can think to compare it to is when your mother  
finally sends you a text asking you for money when she hasn’t  
spoken to you in a year.  That same feeling, that same little bubble  
of wonder, a spark, a rekindling, and maybe it’ll lead to something  
and maybe it’ll lead to nothing, but it’s something, and sometimes  
something is better than nothing.  Something is better than nothing.

            “come on.”

I’m slow to follow, I always have been, but I will follow  
at my own pace.  I will follow if I’m not forced, and only  
if I don’t think of it as following.  Stubborn, maybe, but   
it’s just how I’ve always been.  My thoughts flash to   
Wonderland, as they often do, and I think about the  
cat for a little while as I get my bearings and float after  
him.  The cat.  The cat knew these things about me,  
and he was an expert at placing concepts in my head  
and making me think it was my idea all along.  He was  
manipulative that way.  But I suppose I loved him all  
the same.  What I wouldn’t give to go back again.

By the time I reach the shore, my   
skeleton-not-friend already has a  
fire built up.  It’s warmer here, much  
warmer than it was in the snow, which  
is probably obvious by now but   
sometimes in places other than our  
own reality it’s hard to tell.  I think  
he means it to dry our clothes faster.  
Either way I won’t complain.  I’d  
rather stare at the fire than be forced  
to dwell on these ramblings in my mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to those who have read so far. I would love to hear what you think. :)


	17. Fire

            “you know, i’ve told you almost everything about me.”

I doubt that very much.  I doubt that very much indeed.

            “but i feel like i know nothing about you.”

And I don’t know if he’s trying to make fun of me or if he  
genuinely wants to know anything, so I just shrug and   
continue to gaze at the dancing flames while the water  
evaporates to mist from my skin and dress.  
            But he keeps staring at me, and I don’t see it,  
            because I’m not looking not looking not looking  
            but I can feel it.  So I suppose

“I’m not the right Alice.”

                                                            will do for now.

            “heh.  you’re really not much of a talker, are ya?”

No, I suppose not.  My mouth tends to get me in trouble these days.  
Can you really blame me, skeleton man?

            “so which alice are you?”

Now that’s an interesting question, but one that I’ve answered before,  
and I’m not much for repeating myself.  As the cat once told me,  
you shouldn’t ask questions you already know the answer to, because  
it’s rude.  Or maybe it was my sister.  I can’t remember.  The lines  
are hazy and I suppose my mind is unreliable at the moment, but I think  
I am supposing a lot lately, which I suppose is the same as assuming,  
and you know what they say.

“The one with the drugs and the death.”

            “on the surface, maybe.  but what i wanna know is what’s beneath all that nonsense.”

And I’m annoyed he refers to it as nonsense.

            “get down to the bare bones of it all.  heh.”

And I’m annoyed he refers to it as nonsense but confused as to his meaning.

            “what made you into who you are?”

And I’m annoyed and confused and something else I can’t quite place,  
but I can feel my heart sinking at his words, and I don’t think I’m afraid  
because I don’t think there is any reason to be, and I don’t think I’m cold  
but my legs are trembling under me, under my fingers, so I keep my hands  
on my knees and wait for time to pass.

            “i just don’t think that anyone is just born wanting to bathe in a stranger’s insides.    
            something had to have happened, right?”

M o r e  
 t h a n  
  y o u  
   k n o w .

            “heh.  if you don’t want to talk, it’s alright.  i understand.  i was just curious, ya know?   
            and sometimes talking it out helps, i think.  bad thoughts have a way of eating at you.”

“Why?”

            “huh?”

“Why are you asking a knife what it’s sliced?  Why does it matter?  
You use it, then you put it back in a drawer until you need it again.  
You don’t ask what it’s been through or who knicked it in some places  
to be razor sharp or who dulled it to nothing in others.  It’s a tool.  
Use it.  Put it away.  Repeat.  Yeah?”

He laughed then, a big, bellowing sound that  
simultaneously stroked and scraped at my eardrums.

            “you always this serious?”

I suppose I am, so I stay silent, because I don’t  
know if yes is the right answer.  Maybe it is, but maybe  
it’s not the answer he’s looking for.  I don’t know, but all the  
same, I’m done talking, bored to death with the conversation, so I  
resituate, resettle, and shift my gaze to the base of the fire, watching wood  
smolder  
            and  
                        crackle.  
I do what I do best.  
I let my mind wander.

            “wow, i thought dealing with a little kid was bad enough.  turns out angsty teens are way   
            worse.”

I’m twenty six.  He knows I’m twenty six,   
so why does he insist on being rude?  
            Trying to get a rise out of me, I’d wager,  
            if I were a betting woman, if I had luck,  
            but it turns out that the only truth in any  
            of this is that I’m indeed a woman, a grown  
            adult, and I’m not going to stoop to his level.  
                        I’ve been down this path a time or two.  
                        Nearly every denizen of Wonderland  
                        based their existence on how rightly  
                        they could piss me off.  Maybe that’s  
                        an exaggeration.  
Never mind.  
Because he’s still looking at me like I did something wrong and I swear I didn’t.

“If I tell you something, will you leave me alone?”

The words feel like venom on my lips,  
and the venom feels good.  Anger feels  
good.  Natural.  I like it better than that  
weird loneliness that’s been eating at my  
nerves.  I wish I could keep a better grip  
on it, though, because it’s already settling  
back into something more comfortable  
and I’m not looking for comfort.

            “i won’t make any promises, kiddo.”

But I pretend I didn’t hear that.  I pretend he said yes and I pretend he  
swore it on his dead brother’s grave, his dead brother’s body, because  
I know it’s squirming around somewhere, and I’m tempted to bring that  
up but I think maybe he’d take offense, just like I think I maybe like  
an annoying sans more than a stoic silent sans.  
            I bite my tongue until I taste blood to remind myself of manners  
            I learned the hard way from Hatter.  I swallow the metallic taste  
            until my mind settles.

            “wonderland, right?”

I watch the fire and let my mind wander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans: I heard that some nine year old--  
> Alice: I'm eleven so shut the fuck up.


	18. Confession

I’m cautious in my words, choosing each one carefully,  
and I’m grateful that he does not rush it along, that he  
does not force me to get done at his pace, because otherwise  
I’ll close up and shut up and leave our conversation in  
the dust where his friends should be.    
            He sits there.  Patient.  And I appreciate it.

I tell him about Wonderland and how it felt and looked and tasted before things went bad.  
I gloss over my family.  It’s too intimate to get into.  
I mention the fire and the end of my house and glossed over family.  
            He doesn’t ask questions.  
I talk about the first time Wonderland snapped and how ruin seeped through the cracks.  
I speak of the asylum just a little because I can remember just a little.  
The orphanage, the doctor, the questionable methods.  
How Bumby tried to make me forget.    
            I don’t tell him about the other things.  
When Wonderland twisted and molded itself into something barely a shadow of its former self.  
Where friends I used to take tea with and share riddles and games became  
                        old, decrepit, melted, malnourished,  
                                    until they weren’t them anymore.  
How I killed them  
            killed them all  
                        again and again and again  
                                    to keep them from killing me.  
Pain.  So much pain.  
                                    And even then…

“Ah, and after that, after I took care of some things, ah, back home, I mean.  Reality, if you will.  I thought it would change back to what it was.  At the time I didn’t think it was too far-fetched.  You get rid of the sickness, the symptoms, you get better, yeah?”

And I don’t want to talk anymore about it.  
I don’t like thinking about it.    
I just want to go home and get high and   
f o r g e t . . .

            “it didn’t get better, did it?”

I shrug.

“Nah.  I guess my mind is tainted.  You go so far down the rabbit hole and there’s no coming back from it.  You’re just stuck with it.  Some blood doesn’t just wash away.”

I shrug, and he nods.  I didn’t tell him what I did  
to solve the source of my little problems, and I don’t  
think I want him to know.  It’s not that I’m ashamed.  
I won’t deny what I did.  I just don’t like to put it into  
words.  I don’t like the idea of stooping to someone  
else’s level but in the end that’s exactly what I did.    
            Except I couldn’t hurt the bastard with sex and manipulation.  
            So I had to rely on the next best thing.  
And I’m not ashamed, I swear I’m not, but maybe  
I just don’t want to think about it, I just don’t want  
to speak on it right now, and maybe, just maybe I  
don’t want sans to know how deep this goes.  Maybe  
I’m afraid (no, not afraid, I’m not afraid) of what  
he will think, and I already had a taste of his silent  
treatment, and that’s a bitter medicine I don’t want  
on my tongue ever again.  But I don’t want the story  
to end on blood because then maybe he’ll put it together  
like the pieces of a puzzle and he’ll have the answer  
to the question he never asked and I just don’t want  
the tension weighing on my weary shoulders.

“The extracurriculars take some of the sting away.”

And maybe I don’t want to leave the story on drugs, either.

“But I guess it’s nothing compared to having a bunch of bodies lying on the ground begging for release, yeah?”

And maybe I should shut my fucking mouth while I’m ahead.  
Alice, you idiot.  
When will you learn?

            But he doesn’t flinch or look away.  He just nods, confirming something  
            in his own skull, understanding, accepting, and then,

            “let’s get some sleep, kid.  long way to go yet.”

And I can’t help but feel like my confession didn’t win me any favors.  
Alice, you idiot.  
When will you learn to keep your mouth shut.  
                        This is what you get for opening up.


	19. Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice wants to ride the bone train.

I don’t know when the fire went out,  
but I do know that my clothes are still damp  
and I do know that I’m shivering despite  
the stifling humidity.   
I know that sans is still sleeping across the  
way, and I know where my mind is heading  
and I don’t want it to go there.  
I know that these thoughts and feelings and  
fantasies aren’t real, and I know that they  
are a product of loneliness and boredom,  
and I especially know that telling myself  
these things hasn’t done any good in the  
past  
but that doesn’t stop my vain hope of  
pushing down urges that are unsavory,  
unnatural,  
unwelcome.

I’ve been down this road before.  
Not with a skeleton, but with a cat.  
And don’t get the wrong idea.  
It’s not what you think.  
It’s not.  
Because he wasn’t always a cat.  
And I don’t mean that he was a dog  
or a bird or even a human being,  
because he wasn’t,  
and that’s not how this started anyway,  
because he was always a cat,  
and when I say that,  
what I’m trying to say is that he was  
a mangy, malnourished feline until  
he didn’t want to be,  
because I wanted it to be so,  
because he wanted it to be so,  
because between all the banter and  
hatred and scuffles, I found something  
that tickled my fancy, if you will,  
and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea  
because it was never what you think it was.

What we had was a product of teasing  
and misplaced feelings, and I don’t doubt  
for a second that he didn’t think the same  
way as I did.  But sex is ultimately a tool,  
and he wanted Wonderland to go back to  
the way it was, and what better way to appease  
your savior but to give them exactly what  
they want in the form of shape shifting  
into something not quite cat but not quite  
human and pushing  
all  
the  
right  
buttons  
until it’s that spot,  
right there,  
oh god,  
o h  p l e a s e ,  
oh yes,  
o  h   f  u  c  k  ,  
until I’m putty in his hands and he can mold me to be anything he wants.  
            All with a smile on his face.

And if I was cold before,  
                                    I’m hot now,  
            and that water looks good and I only hope it can cleanse my sins a second time.

It’s a quick dip,  
in and out,  
lest he wake and assume I wandered off again  
and drag me back with a flick of his wrist  
to be by his side again,  
and in the cover of the darkness  
this isn’t an unattractive thought,  
because my mind is somewhere else tonight  
and it’s not blood I’m looking for,  
but I crave blood nevertheless  
but not in the way that you think,  
because if I am to be touched by anything tonight  
I want it to be rough,  
I want to bruise and bleed and cry until  
it’s done  
and I’m left empty  
because the pain makes it feel more real to me,  
and maybe that’s a comment on me as a person  
and maybe it’s because of a shady history  
and maybe I’m a little fucked up in the head  
but I don’t care right now  
even if I know for a fact that I will care later.

                                                                        Why do I do this to myself?

It’s quiet and it’s cold again  
and I’m wet again  
and I’m shivering,  
and I don’t want to build a fire again  
so I go where anyone else would  
go if they were in my position.  
                                    The ground near my not-friend skeleton  
                                    is warmer than the ground not near him,  
                                    and it’s easy to curl up with my back to  
                                    him, scooting closer, closer, closer still,  
                                    until there’s no space left and I’m touching  
                                    his clothing with my skin,  
                        and I can feel him jerk awake  
                        and what else can I do but  
                        hold my breath?  
            He doesn’t push me away,  
            he doesn’t pull away,  
            and instead he touches my hair in a way  
            that sends jolts of electricity through my scalp  
            and gives me goosebumps.  
He doesn’t say a word and I like us like this,  
with his breath slowing and his bony hand touching my hair just so,  
with my breath even and my arm cradling my head,  
my fingers resting on some part of him that I cannot place  
because I don’t want to turn to look.

It’s calm.  The water is calm.  And I am calm.

As the pulsings of lust waver, I find peace in my heartbeat.   
Rest a while, Alice.  
Enjoy it while it lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought this would be as good a time as any to mention that I have a tumblr.  
> http://www.tumblr.com/blog/mandakaywrites is where I have all kinds of writings.  
> http://www.tumblr.com/blog/lovealwaysmandakay is where I have all the reblogs of all the things. At the moment it's largely Undertale related. :)


	20. Soul

He says it’s the closest they could get to stars underground,  
and that he thinks the real deal would be better,  
but I’m not so sure about that,  
because where I  
grew up   
there  
are  
only  
clouds  
of  
smog.  
The smell of industry hangs in the air where I live,  
the taste of progress,  
the death of the planet hung in suspension on a thin wire,  
but never mind that right now.

We haven’t walked for very long before we take a seat under   
shined rocks glittering in the wall.  I don’t know what happened  
to the hurried pace of the past few days but it’s at a standstill now  
as we just enjoy the view, except I suspect ulterior motives because  
I keep catching his eyes on me, and every time I turn to meet that   
curious gaze, he turns away again.  It’s a game I don’t normally  
like, but I still have leftover feelings from the night before, so right  
now I don’t mind it, I don’t mind at all, because my heart is pounding  
in my chest and I want nothing more than to rip it out and give it to  
him as a peace offering.   
            But instead I stop trying to meet his eyes and just look at the not-stars above me.

            “do you trust me?”

And that’s an odd question, because I barely know you,   
skeleton, and how can I trust you when I don’t even trust  
myself?  I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to lie, so  
I don’t even give his query the satisfaction of a response,  
nonverbal or otherwise.

            “can i show you something?”

And that’s a better question, because while I don’t trust  
myself your yourself or some misplaced feelings I found  
the night before, I am always open for new things, and a   
sick part of me wonders if it’ll be something to put an end  
to these terribly impure thoughts I’ve had, am having, will have.

            “c’mere.”

And I step his way and sit when he does,  
and I’m glad he doesn’t suggest I sit because  
he learned his lesson before when we first met,  
and sitting when he sits feels so natural anyway,  
and I know I’m reading too much into this but  
I just can’t help it right now.  
            And without a word of explanation his gloved hand  
            hovers at the center of my chest, and I don’t mind,  
            I don’t think I mind, at least, because his hand  
            is one of the things I wanted, but I don’t  
            know what he’s doing, but I recognize  
            that pull, that heaviness, and it goes  
            from freezing cold to warm to   
            a certain level of heat that  
            I recognize all too well,  
            and is this how it’s  
            going to be right  
            now right here  
            under the   
            fake   
            stars?  
And I don’t know if I moaned out loud but he  
smirks just a little more and my body is so  
warm and if he so much as brushes up against  
me it will be my undoing.

But instead the heat rises and then  
nothing.  
Nothing but cold and empty.

I didn’t realize I had my eyes closed until I hear him whisper.

            “look.”

And I open up to see something glowing, something floating just above his hand.

            “i know you said you were tainted before.”

It’s beautiful.

            “but i think you’re doing just fine.”

I can’t find my voice.

            “just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t make you a bad person.”

And his voice echoes and how is that fair?

                        And with a flick of his wrist, the glowing thing floats closer to me, settling back  
                        in my chest, and the warmth comes back, and I’m so overcome with emotion,  
                        and I can’t hold back the tears welling in my eyes.  
            A part of me is grateful for this feeling,  
            but another part of me hates him for giving it to me.

“What was that?”

            “your soul.”

And my tears are spilling without restraint and I should be  
ashamed  
but instead I stare at my feet until I see movement and he’s  
holding his hand out to me,  
and this is it,  
this is my choice,  
my decision,  
because I can take that hand and accept the touches that come after  
or  
I can refuse it and be by myself with these emotions that are overwhelming,  
and yesterday or the day before the answer would be a hazy rejection  
but  
it’s not yesterday or the day before,  
it’s today,  
and things have happened since yesterday that maybe changed my mind about him,  
and so the correct move is obviously this.  
            I take his hand in my own,  
            and accept whatever affection he has to give  
            because I am starved of it.  
And he’s warm but something feels off,  
because what I expected was for a stray hand to sneak up my thigh,  
but what I got was something that felt   
platonic  
and   
pure.  
He strokes my hair and wipes my tears but there’s no need behind it,  
no want,  
nothing.

            “i’m sorry.  i should have told you about that.  seeing your own soul for the first time  
            can be kind of intense.  shh.  just let it all out.  you’ll be ok.  i got you.”

What does that mean?

            “take as long as you need.”

What  
            does  
                        that  
                                    mean?

            “shh.  you’re okay.  you’re safe.  i got you.”

And I can feel my pulse quicken and it doesn’t carry the  
same beat as it did before.  I feel vile.  I feel violent.  
I feel like I want to tear his skull from his neck and I  
have to bite my tongue to keep tendencies that come  
naturally to me back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sans just wants to be a good friend. Alice just wants to get laid. That won't cause problems at alllllllllll. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	21. Fired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Sans is sick of Alice's shit.

We walk.  
The atmosphere feels hotter than it ever did before  
and we walk through it.  
He hasn’t tried to touch me or speak to me  
since my episode.  
There’s a wall between us,  
and maybe things are better this way.  
            I don’t know why I do this to myself.

I don’t know why I refer to what happened as an episode,  
namely because it wasn’t my fault, but his, and   
namely because he had it coming.  
He knew the rules and the boundaries and   
the things that could and could not be done,  
and just because I let my guard down for a minute  
didn’t mean he was allowed to take advantage.  
            We were supposed to trust him and he took advantage of us.

And I say we, but I don’t really mean we,  
except for maybe I do.  
Make sense?  
Never mind.

                        Things are different.  
                        Things are different,  
                                    and not necessarily in a good way,  
                                    but maybe it’s for the better.  
Because something changed, you see,  
the moment he held me in his arms.  Something  
s n a p p e d   
and my mind went away for a little bit, a little while,  
and  
me  
became  
            we.

I’m not all bitter, however.  There is some good to come of this.

For instance, he saw the change before I felt it,  
like a flicker,  
like when he disappears only to reappear,  
except for instead of me teleporting to somewhere anywhere anywhere but here,  
I left my tangled hair for something straighter, longer,  
and my dingy dress for something bright and blue  
and my empty fist for something holding a handle I knew all too well,  
something that we knew all too well,  
and the moment I didn’t want him between my legs  
I wanted his detached head in my hands  
because the teeth are easier to remove that way  
and we know how much we love our little collection.  
            I exchanged my lust for blood lust full force  
            and if he didn’t push me away when he did  
            I won’t say that he would be dead but I won’t  
            say that he wouldn’t be, either.  
And we don’t miss the simple detail  
            that the very soul he swore was beautiful  
                        and able to do good  
            is the same one  
                        he gripped with a magic  
            I still  
                        we still  
                                    don’t know  
                        and lifted us up  
            and tore us down  
                        until the urge to  
            kill this  
                        monster  
            who   
                        broke  
            my  
                        heart  
                                    passes.  
And he doesn’t understand why I did it,  
but I don’t understand why he did what he did, either  
so I guess we’re even for now.

We walk.

He keeps my soul lightly in his grip just in case he thinks I step out of line.

We walk.

He’s getting tired and he knows that I know but he refuses to give in yet.

We walk.

But it’s hot, and the heat has a way of getting to you, and if Wonderland  
loosened its grip on me I think I would have collapsed by now  
because the flames burn my legs and take me back to a time I would rather  
forget  
thank you very much.

We walk.

Sans is heaving but he keeps pushing on for some reason I will never understand.  
What’s wrong, skeleton man?  Afraid to meet death face to face?

We walk.

And then we stop.

He sits with his back resting against a wooden station of some sort,  
and he doesn’t offer me a seat on the ground,  
instead choosing to pull me down with a flick of his wrist  
to the graveled surface  
and drags me for good measure  
a few several feet  
before letting me alone a moment.  
            I stay with my face in the ground where he left me.

            “oops.”

And if he says another word another fucking word I will drive my knife through  
his eye socket and satisfy my curiosity.  Is the Christmas lights in his eyes  
a product of nothing but magic, or are they real?

            “sorry.  guess my grip is a little slippery in this heat.”

If I were to dig my knife to the space between his teeth and jaw, could I pry it open?

            “don’t get hot headed about it.”

What would I find inside?

            “i don’t want to be forced to fire you.”

Top teeth or bottom teeth?

            “seriously, kid.  what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He lifts and spins me and pulls me back over  
so that I’m not quite an arm’s length away,  
and I want to sink my own teeth into his throat  
just to see what happens.

            “i listen to you, i try to help you, try to show you that hey, it can get better.”

I wonder if I detach each bone separately if he’ll  
cry out for his dying brother writhing in pain  
somewhere else.

            “to think i ever took pity on you.  to think i went well out of my way to be a friend.”

I wonder if I drug him back to his home if I  
could get him to confess where he hid his  
brother’s body so I could reunite them at last.

            “i don’t get you.  you switch your mood at the drop of a hat.  you’re nuts.”

I think I would be doing him a favor in  
letting him spend the rest of his days  
with his family   
in agony.

            “one minute you’re bathing in blood and spewing threats;   
            the next you’re going out of your way to be close to me.”

I want him dead, but I want it slow.  
I think I do.  
We know we do.  
But I think I do.  Just think.

            “why are you so eager to get hurt?”

Sans lifts me higher  
and  
drops.  
            The pain is delicious.

            “why?”

Again.  
Up.  
Release.  
Down.  
Up.

            “nap time, kiddo.”

Down.


	22. Boring

There’s blood on the tiled floor  
and the way that I feel, I fear it may be mine,  
but I check myself over as best I can  
because my wrists and ankles are tied  
and I don’t see any cuts open wide enough  
to cause all this.

            Am I awake?

I can’t be, because my dress is still bright  
and this room is too big to be a bathroom.

            Am I broken?

That’s a loaded question, and I, we, know it.  
But what I mean is are my limbs alright,  
can I move on my own,  
am I free?  
            My mind still buzzes so I know I’m not alone inside it.  
But never mind all that nonsense.  
                        Water under the bridge.  
            Speaking of water…

There’s a glass of it held in front of me by a skeletal hand  
and I take it and drink it down,  
too thirsty to worry about what may or may not be in it.  
He wouldn’t poison me at this point.  
            By all rights, I should be dead by now.  
I would have killed him if roles were reversed.  
            I assume he’s too soft for doing much else than tossing me around.  
                        How boring.

            “i gotta say, kid, i liked the other alice a lot better.”

I gotta say, skeleton, I liked the other smiled freak a lot better.

            “little weird, but at least she didn’t try to lodge things in my sockets  
            every time my back’s turned.”

Little weird, but at least he didn’t try to make me feel guilty  
for things that come natural.

            “so what is this?  some sort of break in the timeline?”

He waves his hand impatiently, I assume at my getup,  
and I reply with nothing more than an eye roll.

            “is this who you are in your world, alice?”

I don’t want to talk about my world anymore.  
Been there, done that.

            “alice.  come on.  speak up.”

Nah.

            “ya know, this edgy ultra violence thing you have going on is   
            really starting to get old.  and, you know, the trying to kill me thing?  
            kinda boring at this point.  now, i’m the last person to tell anyone  
            how to live their life.  but could you, you know, not?”

I open my mouth to force a yawn until a  
real yawn comes up.  His voice is droning  
and quickly becoming background noise  
to my own thoughts.

            “could you at least hold off on trying to snuff me out until  
            after you meet chara?  i kinda need you alive until then,  
            and i think if i have to beat you down again you might  
            not make it.  so just, you know, don’t.”

…

I’m not bored anymore, at least.  
I’m not sure that anger is a good  
substitute.  
            But I swallow it back anyway  
            because I can’t do anything right  
            now, but he can’t keep an eye  
            on me forever.

“Whatever.  Untie me.”

My wrists and ankles are rubbed raw  
thanks to some struggling on my part  
while he’s flapped his jaw  
            but he can’t flap it not really because his mouth never opens  
but it doesn’t stop him from annoying me anyway.

            “maybe.”

“What?”

            “maybe if you ask nice, i’ll let you loose.”

“Fuck off.”

            “okay.”

“No, wait, where are you going?”

            “fucking off, i guess.”

“Untie me, you twat.”

            “wow, rude.”

“Sans!”

            “i mean, before, i just wanted you to ask nice, but now, i think  
            i might do it if you beg.  maybe.”

“I’m not playing this game.”

            “okay.”

“Sans!”

And this goes on for what seems like  
an hour or more because he thinks he’s  
funny and I’m stubborn, and if I’m  
being honest, I think I could have gotten  
loose by now myself, but underneath  
the seething anger on my skin is a thin  
layer of amusement at this senseless banter.  
            A part of me hates him but another  
            part enjoys him and my mind feels  
            like it’s splitting sometimes, but  
            I just blame Wonderland and try  
            not to dwell on it anymore.


	23. Tendencies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice feels a little bit suicidal in this one, and Sans is a little bit of a dick about it. They make up later. But if this kind of thing makes you uncomfortable, probably skip out on this one. Love you all.

We eat a dead thing’s food  
and when I say a dead thing,  
I don’t mean it’s dead.   
At least not all the way.  
Because sans dragged it into  
another room, and when I say  
it, I mean the biggest pieces that  
remain, because it is in the same   
state as every other being we’ve  
come across on this journey through  
the underground, this journey  
through hell.

There’s something morbid in the way we devour  
what’s left in this thing’s cupboards   
that I can’t quite put my finger on.  
            But never mind that,  
            because the last of it is gone  
            and I can feel the tug on my soul  
            that means it’s time for us to go.

He’s been quiet.  
We have not.  
You wouldn’t know it, though,  
because the conversation that’s  
been demanding all my attention  
has been going on in my head.  
            You haven’t missed much, I swear,  
            but to summarize:  
                        we are not a tool  
                        and we just want to go home  
                        and we want to stop at the carcasses  
                        and just observe a while.  
            We can’t remember what it’s like to hold a heart in our hand,  
            but we think it was a nice feeling when we did.  
We think we’ll leave the skeleton be  
because a piece of us wants him, but  
as soon as our interest wanes, we’re  
sure that we won’t mind knife play  
against bones, just out of curiosity,  
just to see what makes the bone man tick.

There’s a pull, and then I’m face down against stone once more.

            “tsk tsk, kiddo.  what did i say about looking at me like a piece of meat?”

I don’t know.  I wasn’t listening.

            “you can walk on your own or i can drag you.  move it.”

I hate you with almost every fiber of my being  
except for one, and you should be grateful for that,  
because I think if I had nothing to lose I could   
pound you into the dust you say your people are  
supposed to become.  
            You’re hesitant because you need me.  
            I’m hesitant because I think I might want you.

            “alice.”

I get up and I walk.

I’ve had,  
            we’ve had,  
lots of things to talk about through this  
ungodly hot maze.  
Like where Wonderland came from in all this.  
Like where did Wonderland seep through.  
Like where has Wonderland been all this time that I’ve needed it.  
            And really, I don’t know what I’m so concerned with,  
            because all that’s changed is my clothing and the simple  
            fact that I have a vorpal in my hand that sans cannot touch.  
                        I know.  
                        We know.  
                        He knows.  Because he tried to take it away during  
                        our first scuffle only to have the handle burn his hand.  
            I don’t know why or how, but it works in my favor, so why bother wondering?  
But it doesn’t feel accidental, this bleeding of worlds,  
and I won’t lie when it makes me, we, us, uncomfortable.

                                    This is wrong, Alice.  This is all wrong.

            “alice!  hold on!”

I didn’t realize.  
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize,  
we didn’t realize,  
where we were going,  
and all I know  
we know  
all we know is that there is a hand above us  
and nothing beneath us  
and the heat from below makes me think of houses and fires and I hate it  
and there is a jumping feeling in my heart  
our heart  
and it’s so hard to breathe.

            “give me your hand!”

But he already has a hand in one of his own  
and I don’t know why he doesn’t use that hold on my  
soul to pull me up and set me straight.  
            Why doesn’t he want to save me why doesn’t he want to stop this why does he want me to fall why won’t he help me  
And I know the answer from the look on his sweat-drenched face.  
He’s exhausted and I don’t mean to be mean,  
I don’t mean to be crude, scouts honor, even  
though I’ve never been, but he’s tired and  
worn and he just can’t get it up.

            “now is not the time to be stubborn, kid!”

I consider.  
I consider his stance and his tone and try to put myself in his shoes  
and it makes me feel helpless to a degree that I almost pity him  
because everyone he’s ever known and loved is not quite dead and  
suffering and I feel like we have more in common than he wants  
to admit.  
I consider that his grip on my left hand is painful and that I didn’t  
think a being with no muscles or tendons could have so much strength  
in their bones but I suppose that with magic that anything is possible  
but that makes me wonder if he has enough to crush my hand than  
why he doesn’t have enough to lift me to safety.  
I consider the drop.  
All it would take is an ounce less of pressure around my flesh, and then down I go.  
Down to flame and lava.  
Destined for an eternity of pain if the trend of monsters continues to me.  
Destined for a long sleep if the trend does not.  
A long sleep.  
It’s attractive.  
I won’t lie.  
No more using.  
No more feeling.  
No more.  
                                                Please, sans, let me go.

                                                            I don’t say it with words.

                                    I don’t think I have to.

            “damnit!”

And I feel like my hair is being torn from my scalp,  
and there’s a rush of air  
and I’m on my back  
and alive  
and breathing.

            Sans lays next to me gasping for air for a second or two,  
            then rolls close to me  
            and a piece of me wants to edge closer to touch him once or twice  
            with my lips.

But instead he delivers  
a hearty  
slap  
against my right cheek  
and my left  
for good measure.

            “what was that?  the hell was that?”

And he keeps on saying more after that  
but I don’t want to listen so I don’t,  
so we don’t.  Even though a piece of  
me wants to, we don’t let her.  She’s  
out of her mind, after all.  A bit touched  
in the head.  Make sense?

Nevermind.

            “why do i even bother?”

I don’t know, sans.  I don’t know.

            “do me a favor and save your suicide for after chara.  we’ve come too far for this shit.”

Harsh, sans.  Harsh.  
Harsh.  
            Harsh.  
                        Harsh.  
Harsh.  
                        Harsh.  
            Harsh.

            “…hey, come on.  you know i didn’t mean that.”

Harsh.

            “hey…”

And this time I let his hand rest on my shoulder,  
and after a few minutes I let his arms wrap around me,  
all while pushing down any homicidal tendencies I may have,  
because a small part of me heard his words and the only  
way to heal the wounds inflicted is to let this moment  
happen and sit back and observe.

            His hands work down her shoulders and back  
            and brush back up through her hair, lingering   
            on the sensitive place at the back of her neck,  
            stroking, soothing, whispering in her ear   
            apologies and compliments and promises,  
                        and she hangs on every touch and every word,  
                        and he keeps going even as she clings to the   
                        front of his hoodie, even when she moves to  
                        the back of his hoodie, even when she snakes  
                        her fingers under the hem to his undershirt,  
                                    and we would accuse her of attempting to take this  
                                    situation to the next level, looking for sex to fill  
                                    the emptiness in her existence, but she’s so distraught  
                                    that we don’t dare.  
                                                She clings to him like her life depends on it.  
                                                Maybe it does.


	24. Hand

He doesn’t have hold of my soul.  
            Not in the way that you think.  
I won’t say that he trusts me to behave,  
            but something happened between  
the then and now that made things different  
            between  
us.  
                        He doesn’t have hold of my soul.  
                                    But he does have hold of my hand.  
And I won’t lie to you or to myself  
and lead anyone to believe that this contact  
is more than what it really is.  
            I think he knows what this is,  
            I think he knows what I think,  
            and he’s doing nothing but exploiting it.  
Can I blame him, though?  
                        Something happened between then and now  
                        and I might have revealed to him some things  
                        I might have otherwise not  
                        but the things I felt in that moment  
                        made sharing feel like the most natural thing in the world.  
But I can feel regret starting to spread over my insides  
and I try to repress it best I can  
because I’m on a high that drugs cannot give  
and I don’t want to come down now.

We walk, mostly in silence.  
            He asks every once in a while if I’m okay  
                                                            if I’m hearing them again  
                                                            if I’m ready  
            and I always answer what he wants to hear  
            because I don’t want to ruin the moment.  
                        It’s not that I’ve been lying,  
                        but I’m worried about the lack of communication in my head  
                        because I know that pieces of me are not gone  
                        because my dress is still blue and the vorpal is still in my hand.  
                                    But I guess that’s alright  
                                    because he’s looking for a fight  
                                    and the way his eye’s been flickering  
                                    in and out   
                                    I think we’re coming to the end of our journey.  
            He’s nervous and focused on what’s ahead.  
            I’m nervous and focused on what’s in my hand.

I’m not, I’m not, I’m not trying to make this out   
into something it’s not, but every change in pressure  
he wraps around my palm and fingers makes my   
blood  
pound  
in my ears.  Every reassuring squeeze makes my  
insides squirm, and I know, I know,  
I  
know  
that this isn’t anything to him,  
that he’s not ever thinking about it,  
that he’s just leading me on  
            quite literally, thank you very much,  
and I won’t tell you that it’s something  
that it isn’t, but I also won’t lie and tell you  
that this contact means nothing to me.  
            I’m nervous and worried that this will end  
                        in blood  
            for one of us, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this crazy feeling that Alice is going to fuck this up somehow.


	25. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for the end?

We’re here.

I know this, not because of anything sans says,  
but from the noises coming from the huge building  
                                                            huge house  
that I suppose you could call a castle  
if you cared about specifics.

We’re here,  
and they’re there,  
            and my interest is piqued to such a level  
            that I can feel voices inside my head stirring.  
                                                            They don’t care for emotions,  
                                                            but they are more than willing to come out and play  
                                                            when there’s blood involved,  
                                                and by the sounds of it  
                                                there will be plenty.

I keep walking  
and sans stands solid  
and his grip on my hand firms  
until I have to acknowledge him.

            “i’m counting on you, kiddo.”

Again I feel like I’m being used,  
but he rubs his thumb over the top of my hand  
and all at once  
            I don’t care.

He talks to me and gives me instruction and offers encouragement  
and I hang on every word  
                                                and there’s no way he couldn’t see it  
but a funny feeling comes over me again  
                                                and tells me that he doesn’t care either way,  
but I ignore that  
because we can cross that bridge  
when we come to it.  
                                                And then, just like that,  
                                    he’s gone.  
                        Vanished.  
            Disappeared from existence.  
And I try not to react because I suppose it’s part of the plan,  
but I can’t shake the feeling of being abandoned.  
                                                Is this the same thing he did to his brother, I wonder?  
                                                            Would I do the same thing to him, I wonder?  
                                    The answer to both is absolutely,  
                        and I guess I have to remind myself one more time that this isn’t going to be  
            like the movies say this is going to be.  
But I think I like him,  
            so that makes the whole situation different.  
                        At least,  
                                    that is to say,  
                                                I think my judgment is a little hazy.

I walk down the corridor alone  
without anyone to hold my hand,  
so I grip the handle of the vorpal tighter.

            There’s screaming at the end of the hall  
            coming from a room to the left  
            and I can feel my nerves singing along.

                        I push down my feelings of  
                        want and pleasure  
                        and let myself smile.

This is the end of the line, Alice.  For better or for worse.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The door to the room is closed and the knob is bloody.  
I do not hesitate.  
                                    Take that, fucking knob.  
It turns with ease, if a little slippery under my fingers,  
and it opens to a room so bright it blinds me for just a second or two.  
I close my eyes against it and I can hear the pained cries from within.

            “You’re not the skeleton.”

Chara.

They aren’t what I was expecting,  
but at the same time,  
they are exactly what I was expecting.  
Make sense?

Never mind.

Young.  Maybe half my age, if that.  
Thin.  Not malnourished, though.  
Sex?  I’m not sure.  It could go either way.  
Crazed.  
            Just like me.  
                        I can see it in their eyes.

“Nah.”

I owe it to them to give them the satisfaction of a response, even if it is a grunt.  
I respect them.  
I respect anyone who can cause this much destruction  
and bring adults to their knees begging for mercy  
and grant none.  
            My soul aches in this newfound kinship.  
                        Pity one of us will be dead by the end of it.

            “Get lost.  I’m waiting for the skeleton.”

“Mmm…nah.”

            “Who are you anyway?”

“Eh.”

            “Are you being serious right now?”

“Huh.”

I keep it up because it’s fun, because I owe them this.  
My sister would do the same to me when I was younger,  
much younger than Chara,  
and it would irritate me to no end.  At the time I hated her  
for it.  
But now.  
But now.  
I missed the little annoyances.

            “Get lost, or you’re next.  I won’t tell you again.”

“Ah, and I thought you weren’t one to grant mercy.  That’s a little disappointing.”

            “It’s not mercy.  You’ll get yours, too.  I just want the skeleton first.”

They turn from me,  
and for the first time I notice  
the beast  under them.  
            Their knife keeps getting stuck between the ins and outs  
            because the blade is dirty and the suction from the insides  
            holds on for dear life.   
                        Bloodlust if I’ve ever seen it  
                        in anyone but myself.  
            And they make no move to touch the innards with anything but the knife  
            and they are doing it all wrong in my humble opinion,  
            and if they were to ask  
            which they never will,  
            but if they were to ask,  
            I would show them how it was done.  
                        Killing is only half the fun, after all.

But that’s not what I’m here for.  
            I’m here to put an end to this  
                        and I’m here to go home.

I’m here to kill some bratty kid that reminds me of me  
and I think there might be something therapeutic in that.

“Nah.  Skeleton’s mine.”

I don’t think those words came from my mouth  
but the look on Chara’s face says they didn’t say them either  
so I guess maybe I did say them out loud,  
            but I don’t remember.

            “You don’t know who you’re messing with, lady.”

“Probably not.”

And I guess they’re done talking  
because they’re on their feet and  
coming my way, and I suppose that’s  
alright because talking was never  
really my strong suit. 

It’s time to get busy,  
and my fingers are twitching,  
and I can feel a pulsing in my core  
that begs for release.

                        Today is as good a day as any for bloodshed.  
                        Today is a good day for death.

Their knife is out  
and their movements are quick  
but I’m a little bit quicker,  
and it has nothing to do with age or size  
but with experience,  
because this child was just born  
and I have been doing this dance for years.  
            They are good.  
            I am better.  
And I won’t lie when I say I feel cocky  
all the way up until  
they slice my cheek wide open  
in a parody of a smile  
that I’m a little too fond of.  
            It was a game.  
            Now it’s business.  
Left and right we twist and turn  
and they strike me and I strike them  
and we leap from one end to the other,  
twisting and twirling in this world,  
this story, this fight to the death.  
I land a hit on them,  
they land two hits on me,  
and all at once I know the difference between me and them,  
and that is that  
            they have nothing to lose  
                        and I think I might be in love  
and that’s a dangerous thought.  
                                                But, truthfully,  
all it takes is one solid hit,  
            one sturdy stab,  
                        one steady slash,  
to end everything for one of us.

And that’s why  
when they slip  
on the puddle  
of blood from  
the dying beast  
at our feet,  
I lodge  
the  
vorpal  
through  
the  
back  
of  
their  
throat  
to  
the  
hilt,  
because this game isn’t fair,  
it was rigged from the start,  
and when I claim back what  
is mine, their body spasms  
on the ground, and they should  
be dead any second now,  
but instead they struggle to  
get to their knees, and if I wasn’t  
eager to get this whole business  
over  
and  
done  
with,  
I would let them back up to see  
what happens next, but as it is,  
my mind keeps wandering back  
to soft touches and hand holding,  
and I’m not used to it, and it’s new,  
and it’s so damn frightening, but  
I’m interested, so I guess when  
they struggle to gather their bearings  
and continue this dance of death,  
I’m done.

            The vorpal has never made a cleaner cut  
            through flesh and bone.  
            And when Chara’s head tilts,  
            the neck follows,  
            and it beats their body  
            to the floor  
            with a thud  
            and gushing blood.

It’s not fair.  
It was never fair.  
And the blood on the floor looks warm.  
            I can’t stop myself from licking my lips clean  
            of spatter  
            and dropping the blade  
            only to have it disappear before coming in contact with the ground  
            and running my hands over my face  
            and my neck  
            and my breasts  
            always traveling lower  
            and something in the way death smells  
            never fails to get me in the mood.  
                        I guess that I’m a freak.

But.

            But.

                        But little by little and then all at once  
            the blood and the gore and the bodies  
start to fade.

                                    Is this really it?

                                                All that buildup to come to a close so soon?

                                                                                                            Almost too easy.

But I inhale and I exhale and the blood on my hands  
disappears, same as the blue of my dress, and I know  
that this is coming to an end, but I don’t want it yet.

            “alice.  you did it.  thank you.”

Is that it?  
Is that really it?

            “it’s resetting.  you did it.  you really did it.”

But I don’t want it.

                        “BROTHER!  WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”

            “hey pap.”

                        “YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE AT YOUR STATION.”

            “yeah.  just taking my new friend home.”

Sans looks clean and happy and the scarf he held onto is on a taller skeleton  
and I suppose a normal person would be happy for him, but I suppose I’m  
not normal.  Never mind the embraces and the hand holding and the little things  
that make me melt inside.  I don’t want this.  I don’t want to go.  But then again,  
I can’t not go, because my body is in a bathroom at some house party and I can’t  
just leave it there.  Not to mention the fact that I don’t fit here.  Never mind the  
fact that I don’t fit there either.  I don’t fit much of anywhere, if I’m being honest.  
But it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?  It was worth it, wasn’t it?  
            I’m not so sure.

                        “OH.  WELL.  HURRY ALONG THEN.”

            “we have a skele-ton to ketchup on.”

                        “IT’S TOO EARLY FOR PUNS.”

            “heh.  come on, kiddo.  i know a shortcut.”

I guess I didn’t realize we were back in the snow again until we’re back in  
the glowing room once more, and there is such a finality to it, and I hate  
it.  I don’t want this.  I don’t want this, and I think he knows it, but I don’t  
think he cares much.

            “thanks again.  i don’t think i could have done it without you.”

I don’t think so, either, really, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to  
be rude right now.

            “do me a favor though, kid.  don’t come back.  okay?”

I don’t want this.

            “it’s just up ahead.  i gotta get back to paps.  i’d tell you to be safe, but  
            i think you can handle yourself just fine.  see ya.”

He turns around to leave,  
                                                and I don’t want this.

The only thing  
                        worse than falling  
is floating back up  
                                    and seeing bits and flashes  
of a world you maybe  
                                    knew at one point in time  
but now is thrown back  
                                    to a distant memory  
that you’ll only recall  
                                    at three a.m.  
            when sleep  
                        will not come.

Voices hush into a whisper  
            and then into nothing at all,  
because you’re not floating,  
            you never were floating,  
but you are drunk and maybe a little high  
and your insides feel funny because you  
don’t know what was in those pills.

                                                            I sit up, using the toilet as support  
                                                            and when I am on my feet,  
                                                                        albeit a little wobbly,  
                                                imagine my surprise  
                                                as a bony fist  
                                                c o l l i d e s  
                                                with the wall  
                                                right beside my head.  
                                    Imagine my surprise  
                                    when a skull hovers  
                                    just inches from my face  
                                    with a left eye socket  
                                    sparking to life.

            “you bitch.”

Sans?

            “what did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you guys are interested, I'll continue this in another story. I have a whole idea with Sans in Alice's reality and trying to go back but Alice is Alice and goes back and forth between wanting to help out and wanting to hinder progress. Some angsty druggie alcoholic shiz. Probably some sin here and there. But. Let me know your thoughts. xoxoxo


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